


like storms of fire

by whiplash



Series: like frost, like fire [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Mick's Sexuality Should Come With A Guide Book, Pre-Relationship, Pyromania, Self-Harm, Sexist Language, Spoilers: S1E5 (Fail-Safe), Stupid Boys, coldwave, epic misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which they're both spoiling for a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the rescue, but before they crash into the future.

Mick smears greasy ointment over his chest, fingertips tracing over reddening skin and watering blisters. Electricity's not his thing. Without the lick of flame, the burns just leave him sore and unsatisfied. Restlessness simmers deep within him, like molten lava waiting to erupt. He keeps catching sight of his own scowl in the mirror and, acting on impulse, he throws the jar of ointment onto the bed. It bounces off the mattress, clattering but not breaking as it hits the ground. 

“Gideon’s going to keep monitoring your EKG for arrhythmia,” Len says, his voice drifting over from where he’s been lurking by the doorway. Mick grunts in acknowledgment even though he’s far from worried about his heart. Someday he’ll die, sure, but it’ll be with a bullet between his eyes or a knife in his gut. And, most importantly, it'll be with the world burning and fire raining down from the sky. He's not destined for a slow death in a quiet hospital room. 

“Still can’t believe Raymond got to you,” Len continues. He sounds so disgusted – lips twisting down as if he just bit into a lemon – that Mick can’t help but snort in amusement. Len notices, his eyes narrowing in a way that suggests he’s not done bitching. And sure enough, the man pushes away from the shadows and stalks closer.

“Going soft with old age?” he needles, tilting his head and twisting his voice like he’s on some goddamned stage. Like they're back in Central City and he's wearing his parka and goggles. Like he's _Captain Cold_. Mick snorts again, though with far less amusement this time.

“So Raymond flashes his big brown puppy eyes and takes one lousy beating for you,” Len says, “and all of a sudden you-“

“It’s not about the beating,” Mick interrupts, tired not just of Len’s dramatics but of _everything_. Carrying Ray out of that cell had seemed like the right choice at the time. But that doesn’t mean that Mick’s not pissed about missing out on the fight. Or, to be specific, the fire that had followed the explosion.

Flashing back to the way that the whole sky had lit up with flames Mick swallows heavily and watches his Adam’s apple jump in the mirror. His eyes drag to his new lighter, the one he had stolen in the gulag. It’s not as heavy as his old one. Not quite as solid. But it’ll do the trick as well as anything else. There’s a strange pull behind Mick's ribs and he rubs the pad of his thumb across the edge of a yellowing bruise. It’s the wrong kind of pain, but it’s still a hell of a lot better than those nasty fake burns.

“If not the beating, then what?” Len demands. Mick jerks in surprise, thumb digging in hard before he lets his hand fall down to his side. It’s not that he’s ashamed. He’s not – never has been and never will be because _fuck shame_ – but somehow he’s managed to all but forget that he's not alone. Len's staring at him, his face carefully arranged to not give away whatever's going on in his head. As if he hasn't understood yet that, to anyone who knows him, the phony blankness acts as a warning bell.

Mick drags his focus away from the lighter, struggling to gather his thoughts instead.

“Ray saved your life,” he tries to explain, his voice coming out thick and low. “When that bitch put a gun to your head, he put your life before Hunter’s mission. If he hadn’t, well, then those clever brains of yours would be splattered all over the floor.”

Len makes an angry, hissing noise, possibly at the memory of the gun digging into the back of his skull but most likely at the suggestion that he’s in Ray’s debt. His jaw clenches and his hands tighten into fists. It’s almost enough to make Mick regret putting the notion into the man’s head. Not quite. But almost.

“Yes,” Len deadpans, “ _please_ remind me to send Raymond a fruit basket for getting my partner locked up and tortured in a Soviet gulag.”

“I’m indestructible,” Mick says, liking the sound of those words even though he’s not near loony enough to consider them true. Or, well, at least not entirely true. Besides, the lie might just ease Len's mind. Something's clearly rattled him, or he wouldn't be lingering in Mick's room when none of them's fit for company. Might just be, Mick allows with the tiniest spark of amusement, that Captain Cold's been fretting about his partner's safety.

It’s not impossible. He’s seen Len all but worry himself sick over his sister. While they’re not family – sometimes barely even friends – it’s not impossible that the idiot's convinced himself that Mick's only here because Len talked him into coming. And it's certainly not impossible that he considers Mick to be his responsibility. As if Mick’s not man enough to take care of himself or make up his own goddamned mind. Like he's a child, in need of protection and guidance.

Watching Len in the mirror, he takes in the way that the man's rocking on his feet with his arms wrapped around his chest, like he’s holding himself together. Admits, with a frown, that it's not impossible either that Len’s still spooked about the thing with his old man. Which, of course, leads Mick to think back to that moment in the jumpship -- to Len twisting his head to look at Mick with wet eyes, his voice almost _gentle_  as he turned Mick down -- and the restless, unsatisfied feeling inside of him grows. Twists. _Mutates._ Something stirs in his belly, heat blossoming down to his groin. As he shifts on his feet, widening his stance, he wonders just what would have happened if Len had taken Mick up on his offer instead.

“Indestructible,” Len repeats, his voice equal parts mocking and wondering.

“My scars,” Mick hears himself say, “they keep me safe. They're so thick that I can’t feel a thing through them. They’re like Kevlar. Like armor. They make me _invincible_.”

He rolls his shoulders, causing muscles to move underneath the too-tight skin. Something about the sight captivates Len. He stares at Mick like a lazy python, curled up in long coils by a snake charmer’s feet. Then, finally, he blinks.

“That’s crazy talk,” he says, something deeply unhappy in his voice.

Mick shakes his head but doesn’t bother to correct him. Len might be smart, but there are just some things that he’ll never understand.


	2. Chapter 2

“My scars,” Mick says, speaking with the fervor of a man in a prayer tent, “they keep me safe. They're so thick that I can’t feel a thing through them. They’re like Kevlar. Like armor.“

There’s a sudden lump in Len’s throat. He swallows, only for the lump to lodge harder.

“They make me _invincible_.”

There’s such terrible conviction in his voice. And looking at Mick– at those wide shoulders and that thick neck; at the bruises, the cuts and the burns, all bearing witness to the very perseverance that had first drawn Len to the man; at the healed mess of scars, snaking over his arms to mark him as a survivor of the impossible – it would be all too easy to allow himself to believe in the lie.

“That’s crazy talk,” Len says instead, all too aware of the misery bleeding through in his voice.

Mick doesn't answer. He’s back to staring at himself in the mirror, his eyes growing unfocused and his jaw slackening as he once again pushes his thumb into a patch of mottled skin. It’s far from the first time that Len’s witnessed this; how Mick'll scratch at a cut to keep it from healing or grind the color back into a fading bruise. He still struggles to understand the purpose, though he imagines that Mick must find it soothing, arousing or even some combination of both. In the past, Len’s mind always shied away from exploring the matter further but now... now he finds that something’s changed.

Yes, everything changed with that moment on the jumpship. That moment when Mick had Len’s back, keeping silent look-out while Len quietly fell apart. That moment when Mick spoke up, his voice warm and honest as something drove him to make that impossible offer. That moment which has been on Len’s mind for the past few days, even as he planned Mick’s rescue, fought with Rip and argued morality with Sara.

“Mick,” he now begins, only to fall quiet. For once, he’s at a loss for words. His intention’s clear enough  – _what if? –_ but any attempt at actual articulation sticks in his throat. Len shivers and finds himself wishing that he hadn’t been so quick to get rid of the prison guard uniform. Without a coat to pull tight around him he feels naked. Vulnerable.

His voice must have caught Mick’s attention. He glances at Len for a moment, eyes dismissive.

“Get out of my room, Snart,” he grunts, voice rough but not unkind. “Shower. Sleep. You look like shit. ”

Len forces his eyes away, staring for a second or two at the jar of ointment that’s resting upside down by his feet. In some other timeline, in some alternate universe, Len would pick up that jar and unscrew the lid. He’d coat his fingers in thick salve and then step close enough to Mick for them to feel the heat of each other’s bodies. No need to shiver then.

“Missed a spot,” he’d say, telegraphing each gesture in advance. Then, when Mick didn’t stop him, Len would let his fingers roam over the broad expanse of that chest, keeping his touch feather-light as he traversed bruises, burns and puckered scar tissue. And, in that other world, Mick would lean into Len, his breath hot against Len’s neck and his hands rough and impatient as he tugged Len closer.

Maybe Mick would turn them around, crowd Len against the wall and press up against him. Forehead resting against forehead, chest pressing against chest and groin against groin. The heat would be almost too much. Len would squirm, only to be met with solid resistance. Only to be rewarded with Mick’s knee working its way between his thighs. Only to be wordlessly reassured that Mick wants this just as much, if not more, than Len does. That he's not taking advantage. Isn't making a mistake.

Or maybe Mick would wrap his hands around Len’s waist, pushing him backward until they tumbled into the narrow bed together. They’d grapple then. Len straddling Mick’s hips, only for Mick to push him down into the mattress. Their mouths pressing together to muffle the curses. In the end, Len’s shirt would join Mick’s on the floor and their legs would tangle as they moved against each other. They would-

In this world, in the only reality that matters, Mick’s lighter flickers to life. The eyes in the mirror don't seem to see Len anymore. Then there's the stench of burning flesh.

Breathing through his mouth, Len slinks out through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm a gen writer, _this_ is not what I do. 
> 
> I blame the angst on episode 6. It broke my heart :-(


End file.
